The Drug Room

Inside the flower shop, I walk upstairs and turn to the door on my left that is already nudged open; I push gently and I’m greeted by the most beautiful white cat in the world with large angelic eyes. The beat apartment is dusty with a toxic air that tugs at my throat; Goodfellas is playing on a television that rests on rotting brown shelves; a lone pull-out coach is in front of the television, the only furniture in the room. The apartment is shaped like a box, the kitchen has crumbs all over the counters.

“You don’t mind do you -- if there’s weed here and there?” My host Craig has appeared from the lone back bedroom.

“Ah, no man, it’s okay.”

“Cool. Do you smoke?”

“No, not really.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, I did once but my chest got all congested and I got a weird cough.”

“Yeah sometimes you cough up black shit.”

I hear him incorrectly. “Cough up blood!”

“No, black shit; blood only the odd time.”

“Okay.”

“So what’s up Nagger?”

“Nothing I’m bored.”

“Me too, I’ve been on E.I. for a year now, busted up my shoulder, had a few surgeries on it so I can’t work.”

“That sucks, man. What do you do all day?”

“You’re looking at it”, as he motions to the sad couch and television. “I also get stoned. I’ve become a real pothead.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, like I do it every day, all day. People come my house all the time and all we do is get high: Dole, Brun, Brady”, he lists off the old road hockey crew from high school.

“Oh yeah, how are those guys doing?”

“Brun’s been to rehab twice now I think for coc.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and Dole’s a dealer drug dealer now.”

“Dole, really?

“Yeah man, where do you think I get it? But he at least has a head on his shoulders; he’s going to go to school.”

“And Brady’s going to school too, right?”

“Yeah, Brady’s Brady. They all come over here and get high.”

“Every day?”

“Yeah man.”

“Do you like them coming over all the time”

“No. I like my quiet. That’s why sometimes I just tell them all to leave and they’re like, “What you’re kicking us out?” and I’m like “Yeah”.

“Hmm”. There was a pause in our conversation. “Where’s your girl?” I ask.
“At her sister’s.”

“Where’s that?”

“By the railway tracks; it’s not bad”

“What’s she doing?”

“She had like three eye operations, but she works during the day, I’m not allowed to because of the whole E.I. disability thing, and she’s not my girl anymore either, we ended it, but we’ve been together five years and we still sleep together and stuff.”

“So what’s the probability of your shoulder getting fixed and you being able to go back to work?”

“I don’t know man, but I don’t really wanna go back to work. See, I have a physio appointment for 7:45 this morning but I missed it, screw it. You see, my philosophy is that I want to move away, just get out of here. I want to be able to open my door”, he gestures exaggeratedly, “and see the beach, the ocean. I don’t want to put on my coat in the winter, what’s that?”
I didn’t know. “Where are you thinking of going?”
“Thailand. I just want to go there and start over. Everyone says I’m crazy but I just want to go with nothing at all and walk around and get a job and everything.”

“So why not go now?”

“I’m behind on rent. I owe like a thousand dollars which isn’t so bad and I’ve been with Kate for six years. Six years. It’s not like high school anymore where after a month you can just quit.”

The cat rubs against my leg.

“Oh shit, excuse my language, I forgot you’re allergic to cats.”

“It’s all right man.”
“No. Mischa, get away from him.” He brushes her gently away from my leg; he treats her with great affection. He also has a monster lizard in a clear case that he says he can’t afford to feed anymore. I laugh until I realize he is serious.

“It’s three bucks a week for that thing, man, but I took him because my friend gave me him for free and I’ve always wanted a lizard.”

“I need a smoke now. Just stay there, I’ll go to the other side of room.” He crosses the room and fiddles with the lighter. “Oh sorry, I hate to do this, could you pass me the ash tray?”
“Sure”, I hand him a black ash tray.

Immediately as he lights the cigarette there is a knock on his door and he opens it to find a friend looking for a quick roach smoke.

Craig briefly introduces us and feels we should know one another from high school, we don’t, and he barely notices me as I introduce myself. Craig walks over into the kitchen and pulls a point off a shelf, with a bag a weed right up on the herb shelf as if it were a seasoner. “Mind if we smoke a little?”

“No, go ahead.”

Craig’s friend has a deep toke, Craig tells him to blow away from me. I ask the friend a question as he is exhaling and his face moves inward and his face is stone and he blows out and his slits rest on me and he is now intrigued by me because we know some of the same people from high school. Turns out he’s a dishwasher for a restaurant I dig in town, Frankie’s. The door shoves open again and another person walks in, I recognize him from school, Trevor Cakes, and Craig makes sure that we know one another.

“Got a stick”, Cakes asks.
“I thought you don’t smoke”.

“I don’t” and Cakes inhales on a tobacco cigarette.

“See,” Craig says with a smile, “People just come in and leave whenever they want.” I couldn’t tell if he was in his element or not. He takes a bottle cap, puts some weed in it, and somehow makes a bong out of a plastic Nestle bottle and they take turns inhaling. Before the friend inhales Craig asks if he’s walking, and he answers yes. “This will make your walk better.”

As smoke began swirling around the tiny apartment my eyes began to water, my contacts were drying out and I was afraid to smell of drugs. I told Craig that I had to take off but that we should get together some time for hockey. “Cool man, see you soon.”

She Hangs Brightly

She was gone away and now she is gone here. Once thought the slight waif, the ethereal voice, had slipped into a warmer world, softer hues and shyer people, rising to butterfly mornings and absorbing silver afternoons... not genuinely otherworldly, you understand... but spirited away to a green meadow in among the blood orange trees: her imaginarium as penetrative lights revealed her to a black mass of frightening admirers... now... telling of a life floating, sometimes violently, Through the Devil Softly, singing perfume once the lights are dim enough... waiting to stand coldly, licking her dry lips drier and consciously emitting a tortured meeeeeeeeeeow to a new generation of rot.

Trois-Pistoles Blues

Frosty hands, enveloped in froth, an impenetrable cloud that draws adverse reactions upon each introduction, reaches instead for a dulling pencil and immerses into a pleasurable sadness:

Pedals for fingers in her hands, a sympathetic smile acknowledging time,
Hunching over a wooden cross then moving from grave to grave distributing,
Until the end of her life with flowers enveloping her body, it taking twenty years for her cheeks to pale,
Fading into the land together and reappearing as a flower underneath a rotting cross.

A censored stream of consciousness

The slothful beast rises late afternoon, ostentatious and obese; sizzling bacon topless, whistling between his teeth, an awful hissing noise that fills the house with douche. I stare emptily at a computer screen, begging my fingers to miraculously type out eight pages of literary criticism on Flaubert's Parrot. My ambition is limited to aging this evening, many evenings. Bad noise permeates drywall and my ears droop. Internally I am as complex as embryology, externally I am as simple as a goose flying north for the summer. Simile is seen as inferior to metaphor, but I ask you: are "as" and "like" really our enemies (or at least our lesser friends)? Is the phonetic of simile unforgivable? Nonsense. Simile is a horse! Forgive my attempt at recycled cleverness.

The computer screen remains white. Should I turn aside the literary criticism and open the latest product on my mental shelf: literary dreamism. No; not now. I cannot dream myself dying of plague under the supervision of Camus now. I imagine that black bubbles on my scalp, blown through the devil's wand, are a tad too distracting.

I peek at my circus calender: human salamanders blow fire upwards, either a nihilistic attempt to burn down the heavens and shower in the ashes of truth, or entertain the underbelly of humanity. A poetry reading is scheduled for Thursday. I have never thought Thursday particularly poetic. Patrick Friesen disagrees.

The cursor blinks at me repeatedly, like a confused child, awaiting an answer that refuses to reveal itself.

We're like the wild roses stoned in the backyard

For Sebastian, the classroom is the place for sensual longing, or maybe even lust if the lecture is particularly vapid. Time for his PRESENTATION:

Professor: Sebastian, expound on the spiritual context that the relationship between Rachel and Nick is found in, then connect that with the theory of literary dreamism.

Sebastian: Interesting you should ask that, because I found...

Professor: Can you answer the question Sebastian?

Sebastian: Interesting you should ask that, because I found...

The deflection strategy is working well. The question is the launching point.

Professor: Okay okay. Now how do Nick's relationships in the work impact his psyche and relate this to Freud's theory of pyschosexual development. Also relate this to the whole of the work in its ethical and religious context.

Sebastian: Quite frankly, Ibsen, is a homo. I mean, why bother pontificating his views on morality when those gnarly sideburns could have put him in constant revelry?

Professor: Sorry?

Oh shit, Sebastian thinks. Not again.

Sebastian: The Nordics produce pretty girls and bad literature. What was Myrdal's excuse? He was well positioned to pick up a rush of Swedes and become a sextextual in the classroom. Instead he became an out of words intellectual in the junk yard of shitty lit.

Professor: This has gone far enough Sebastian

Sebastian: Maudlin monsters [sardonic voice] Poem dedicated to Johanna:

Peeling back her mandarin hair,
revealing the pulp of her neck;
quietly smiling,
inviting the freckles to dance
on soft ashen skin

A long and tattered French pop skirt
resting beneath knees,
but a consolation of
naked toes curling under
her soles

Sentimentalism is the end of genuine emotion.

Professor: Leave the classroom Sebastian.

Sebastian: And that's not all. Back to Ibsen: that guy had the balls to hire out his own personal Ibsen scholar.

Professor: That's not true. Leave.

Sebastian: Fuck that.

I've seen the future, brother: it is murder

Segment One

The shades come down and the room begins to darken for the final time. The light fades from a man's prematurely aged face, firm and frowning. The man locks the door and moves slowly along the terrace, thinking of his wife; the woman is lying prostrate in the corner of an aging apartment, eating cheese and slapping herself with a tasbih. "Ferdowsi Ferdowsi, it's my fault my fault my fault." Ferdowsi wishes that he could console her; he wishes that he did not loath her. He turns away from his thoughts, away from the ninety-nine bruising beads, away from the great bruise in her stomach; Ferdowsi wishes not to remember.

Ferdowsi chooses to walk the long way to the apartment, through the tattered neighbourhood south of the subway line. Along the way he sees a blue girl with ashen skin and pink ballet shoes strung around her shoulders slouching along a set of stairs. Ferdowsi vaguely understands the melodramatic nature of young girls but he speculates upon her sadness anyhow; is it that she cannot elegantly perform a chassée in front on her more advanced peers? Ferdowsi's thoughts quickly return to him memories of which he wishes not to remember. He is now thankful that the girl will only remain in his vision for a short while longer.

"Please, sir."

Ferdowsi is startled. He stops and turns towards the girl and meets her puffy, bloodshot eyes.

"Please, it will be dark soon."

Ferdowsi looks away; a tear escapes from his eye and it moves slowly along his cheek, over the crevasse of his upper lip, and into his mouth. The salty taste reminds him of his boyhood days along the Caspian Sea. After his parents had been killed in the revolution, Ferdowsi clung to the coast where a local fishery fed him their daily waste and expired bottles of doogh. He often slept on the shore, buried in the sand to keep away from the cold breeze that came in off the sea at night. As Ferdowsi grew stronger the fishery hired him as a hand and Ferdowsi learned the art of fishing aboard the MarjAneh. Ferdowsi's work ethic impressed the captain, and Ferdowsi's humble and quiet nature impressed the captain's wife, Farah.

Farah dreamed of a more fulfilling existence than that a of fisherman's wife and, before Ferdowsi joined her husband's crew, she would often stare out the window praying that her husband's boat would not appear on the horizon at twilight. Ferdowsi himself found life at sea a lonely existence and he resented his haggard shipmates who enjoyed low brow humour and only saw the rials when the sturgeon were brought up from the sea. Ferdowsi and Farah's common misery brought them together at the light house at night. Ferdowsi said that it was their love that blasted a light across the sea, and Farah would smile longingly.

Ferdowsi's nose for nostalgia has lead him away from the present and has caused him to momentarily forget about the little girl slouching before him. Ferdowsi moves his thumb along the right side of his face, wiping away the evidence of his reflection and softly asks, "What can I do?"

"Some food?" The girl's puffy pink eyes match the hue of her ballet shoes. Ferdowsi always has been a keen observer; it was this qualification that got him employed at the lighthouse at night when he could no longer bear to sleep in the captain's spare room, away from Farah.

"Is no one coming for you?"

"No."

End of segment one.

Blood Oranges

"Twenty-two may not be the start of maturity but, in all conscience, it's the end of youth."

The only thing that could of saved his brief legacy: assassination. But the blood would of stained the First Lady's gown and it was nonrefundable from designer Isabel Toledo. The blood stain would not fit the chief's motif anyway, because a blood stain is tangible and impure; his soaring rhetoric is perfect because the people cannot criticize Lockean political philosophy and the meaning of post-Puritan freedom. These were indoctrinated in them upon their exiting of the womb with a recitation from the sixth edition of Liberty or Death followed by a slap on the ass. Even more, his cold face would be splashed across the cover of tabloid magazines like Time, and a public mourning for their fallen Napoleon would always be compared to that of his predecessor, Jackie's husband Jack.

Assassination saved Jack's legacy. The hero's moral death, birthing the Vietnam War, is now never spoken of. Perhaps this is because one cannot blame him for producing a murderous child. He could not raise her, lest the child could raise her father from the dead. His shiny legacy is lauded across lands everywhere because planting a seed to destruction is all right so long as one does not water it.

The current chief is not so fortunate. The seeds are being watered. How are you doing old chap, my fellow, dear old corporation! Why certainly, full immunity for all telecommunication corporations for eavesdropping on Sylvia asking Mary the proper technique of knitting. Why hi there Israel! Yes certainly, continue new wave apartheid in Palestine! Of course, destroy Alena's school (she was always a slow learner anyway). Do you need some matches to burn the bodies? No no, I still go by Uncle Tom, not Uncle Jeremiah. Please continue the hegemonic wars, we will just withdraw some combat troops, all the other non combat troops and corporate troops can stay.

Domestically, well, admittedly, I can do very little constitutionally but my vagueness will prevail; inadequate environmental policies wrapped up in gold are the wave the future; a stimulus to an unregulated economy is practical; an increase to the military budget is necessary because we must fight rising temperatures by building a giant ice gun; and I will proudly carry the torch of hyperliberalist tradition to free us from our responsibility to the people! Because we can.

Speech speech! The people cry to me. I am not a man of the people. I look away. I am not a poet-in-chief. I can only speak the truth: my youth is gone but my maturity is in question.

Endless Balls

I pull my jalopy up to an isolated, industrial building. I leave the whale shark behind and enter the rotten rectangle through its grimy double glass doors stained with dirt and mucus. I flash my blue card to the lady in the glass box and enter a narrow room with a beat bench. An aging man rests there comfortably. I place my blue knapsack on the far side of the bench away the man. I begin to undress. The aging man turns towards me and I figure that it is time for a pisser. Half-dressed, I pull out of the urinal to return to my knapsack on my side of the bench only to see that it is being violated in the most grotesque fashion imaginable. The aging man, now naked, decides either unwittingly or molestationally to hang his towel on the wooden hook on my side of the bench and, in that process, allow his hanging balls to perch on my faithful Dakine knapsack. A pregnant paused fills the moist air. I turn my burning eyes away from the sac on sack action. I stare at the rusty tiled wall that is oozing moisture and anxiety. What is the appropriate response to this uncouth man who has demonstrated such hostility to social etiquette and hygiene? I peer back to my side of the bench: the affair is over. I totter back to my side of the bench. I avoid any sort of social interaction. I finish undressing. I pull on my dark blue trunks. The aging man is, incredibly, still naked, with his eyes shut. Is he meditating? Oh, the eccentricity of the naked man. I resolve for a ballsy move. I march into a stinky stall, wrap an inch of toilet paper around my hand, noisly return to my side of the bench, pick up the tainted knapsack, stomp to the garbage can, turn around, establish eye contact with the perpetrator, and tomahawk slam my knapsack into the garbage. I dive into the blue.

Mockcast

Part one. Part two. Part three.

The Lost Works: Part One

Pretexters
I have a nose for nostalgia so it is not uncommon for me to sift through drafts of writing from my former computer. This evening I present to you, my loyal and ever-so-daffy blog readers, two works: the first being a letter written to Dalers, that I do not recall writing, during the U of T depression of 2005/6. The second work being a vile short story written at age sixteen.

Forgotten work #1: The Letter

Dale,

Toronto is a busy place with many cars, and even more people. We all try to live in inter-racial harmony and we are fairly successful. Occasionally gangsters will shoot-up the streets, but usually this occurs in poorer regions of the city. Fortunately, I live by Bloor, which is a prosperous street, so I don’t typically deal with gangsters. Although, sometimes on my ventures down Younge, I’ll see groups of hoods loitering in front of the adult movie theatre.

The other danger you must be aware of are the homeless. Some are under the influence of extremely dangerous and terrible drugs. [Editors note: this previous sentence is clearly under the influence of a Hunter S. Thompson obsession.] Others are sober but are crazy. Do not go out late at night by yourself, even on Bloor. I’ve had the homeless stalk me demanding cash.

Once you learn some street smarts you may enjoy the city. A great thing is transportation. For the most part, if I have time, I can walk anywhere I may choose to go. If not, I take the subway. I really like the subway for some reason. It’s just great - always a fun ride. And it takes you anywhere in the city.

Now, where in the subway do I go? What is there to do in Toronto? A lot, unfortunately my life’s a little boring but here’s what I’ve discovered:

Much Music – Hilary Duff to Ashlee Simpson, what more could you ask for?

Food – Many restaurants to discover.

*Walking around – this is the most interesting option. Just wandering around up Younge or other streets that may have interesting sights.

Actually, the point is, you have to make your own fun. If you’re with a few friends then whatever you do will be entertaining enough.

So really, I don’t know what’s going on in Toronto, but that doesn’t really matter.

If you’d like to come down with Jim sometime, you really should. You can check out U of T and we can wander around Toronto.

All right, there you have it.

Bryan

Forgetten Work #2: The Short Story

It started like every other night. The weather was constant. The stars beamed down and reflected from my oversized minivan into oncoming traffic. It was not a night to rely on faith at first. The front, left hand side of my Taurus seemingly had no warning when it collided with a classic dark, heavily tinted large automobile and sent me in a 720-degree rotation. My initial reaction was panic, nothing out of the red there. I saw my reflection in the windshield as I spun and my thoughts were somewhat questionable. I saw my sunburn and wondered that if I died would my face still go white? What a horrific last thought to have before death, surely something about love and less sadistic would do. Thankfully before my brain processed more thoughts my joyride spin had reached its conclusion. I was startled yet relieved that I was still alive. I unbuckled my seat belt and sat in a non-deathly silence. A phone was ringing. With unease, I slowly climbed out of my van. The sleek black car had smashed into a hydro poll and had become a part of it. I walked closer, nervously and unsure. The phone kept ringing. Bloodstains were on the pavement now as I inched closer. Fresh human blood, and it was dark red. The wounds must have been deep. I came right up beside the car and the wounds no longer mattered. The driver, a woman, was dead. She had been nearly literally torn apart. I thought I would be sick, and I gagged trying to find some air. Finally, I regained some composure. The phone continued to ring. I wondered who could be calling her. Was it her husband? Maybe her child? I saw a cell phone beside her arm, anxiously waiting for her answer. For a reason that I couldn’t comprehend then or now, I decided to answer the phone. The phone was pale and cold to touch, suiting the female rather nicely. I raised it to my ear. “H-hello.” I stammered. The voice was deep and sounded dark.

“Wha.. Who’s this? Put Mary on the phone.”

“Uh..” Thoughts were pouncing every which way.

“Hey buddy, what you doin’ answerin’ her phone anyway? She didn’t fall asleep did she? I’m gonna kill her if she fell asleep. She has a job to do, once its done she leaves. I don’t care if your lonely you cracker jack. So what was it? You or her buddy?”

Frantically, I fumbled with words. I looked into Mary’s eyes and they were haunting my soul out of me. Her eyes were cold ocean blue, staring hard, as if looking for something. The voice in the phone continued.

“...I’m gonna come get er’ buddy and man, I’m gonna be crawling out of my eyes if I don’t see some satisfaction.”

I tried to make some sense out of this mess that surfaced faster than a U-571, another widowmaker, like maybe I had become.

“Look, it’s really...not what your thinking,..s-somthing has happened. Mary...”

The voice cut in, “ Alright...Mary...so you're at 2 Dudley Street West, that right wise guy?”

I wasn’t sure where he was pulling these addresses. I was on Dudley Street, but I was on the East end.

“How, how do you know this?” I asked fearfully.

“I think you know who this is. Clarify your location, or I’ll be clarifying your death.”

“We’re on the road...” I began. Interruptions were appearing common now.

“What? Say here buddy, gimme where you are.”

“I’m East on Dudley, side of the road, like I tried..”

“Fine,” The booming voice cut in, “I’ll be there in some minutes. You better have some cash filled explanation and don’t call the cops, Mr. McGregor, or you’ll be going down too.” Click.

At that moment I felt eternally destined for utter ruin. Mary continued to stare at me as if she was trying to communicate from the beyond. I tried to look away from her, maybe climb in my mini and escape. I should of just left, I knew that, but for some reason I was compelled to stay. Mary’s eyes would be too lonely if I left.

At last, a car’s beams lit up Mary and I as if an extra terrestrial force had come to save us from the impending doom. The door blasted open and without any thought I knew it had to be him.

“What the crap is this?” He demanded, storming out of his car. I slowly inched away from the car and the voice, in person now, inched towards the car. “Mary? Mary’s...dead. Why is Mary dead McGregor? And why are you not dead with her?”

Still slowly backing away, I managed to squeak out a light answer, “I...I wasn’t in the car.”

“Why? This is a sick game McGregor.”

“I’m not playing,” I replied while still tentatively backing off.

“Stop,” He commanded, and I did.

“I’m not who you believe I am, I’m not McGregor.” I was becoming delirious and this large dark character in front of me became fixated with the car. He began to walk around Mary’s automobile slowly, looking for...I wasn’t sure but somehow he found something, something that continued the eeriness the night had brought.

“What the...” He was standing near the trunk of the car and sticky, once foreign blood ran off his hands. He pulled open the trunk. “Oh, what has that devil done?”

I knew escape was still a quick option but once again, I was fazed, my head wasn’t operating right. I walked around to the trunk... The trunk had become a small pond of sickly blood. A man, with his hands and feet tied in knots, was in the midst of the puddle. Once more I gagged and figured this must be some sort of hallucinate dream but I was never so lucky. The dark character looked disgusted but it seemed like this wasn’t the first time he’d seen this. He reached into the blood and pulled out a wallet. He flipped cards for an I.D. and he discovered it was no one other than Timothy McGregor. “Holy blazes... that.... that whore double crossed me, that filthly nightwalker.” The man moved towards the front of the car glaring more death into her eyes. He yanked open the door and grasped her arm and threw her limp body to the ground. “You got just as you deserved, just as...” He stumbled, “as you deserve.”

Mary’s eyes told me my time was up. But my watch ticked untimely when the dark man grabbed me by the collar and began beating his fist into my flesh. At first my face stung and throbbed into severe pain, but after I was on the ground with his foot smashing my life away, I lost the feeling of pain. I gained a feeling that cannot be explained. I was lying next to Mary staring into those life filled eyes. She whispered something softly and smiled. Sirens began to fill the air and Mary and I walked away in our own kind of silence.

In Loving Memory...

An excerpt from my posthumous autobiography The Spoken Word, Dead and Still Speaking:

My career took off in a sleepy little deathtoll town on December 13th, 1995; the night of the Psychedelic Spoken Word Battle of the Bands at Uxbridge Secondary School. I warmed up my vocal chords with peppermint herbal tea, looked at my zinc-plated record hanging on the wall, and decided that, yes, tonight is my birth into the spoken world.

I arrived at the school donning a zebra furred coat, a beaver tail scarf, and a Cheshire cat grin. I took the stage and performed my chilling remembrance of endless spheres in the psych-sw anti-hit "Howl". People were moved, but none so much as me. That night I realized my ego was as inflatable as a cannonball.

Following my performance PETA converted me to animalism and I did a spread. I used my minor celebrity to pontificate my views that ice cream dealers should start tapping nursing moms, not cows. The backlash from women across North America hurt the sales of my first LP "Hey Mothers, Leave Those Cows Alone". My ego, rivaling that of Dirk Digger, had difficulty accepting the album's failure.

After being pushed from the spotlight I became a recluse in Thalia. I drove a '52 Chevy pick-up along the dusty roads and began an affair with an older woman named Genevieve. After these nothing years, I picked myself up and prepared for a comeback the size of a Buick. I went back to my roots and re-mixed "Howl" and began preparations to speak it in early 2005.

2005 was a rough year for me. I died. USS offered me the opportunity to play a reunion show and I eagerly accepted. As I sat on the stage and entered my psych-trance, I was divorced eternally from the spoken word by Genevieves husband's two-gauge shooty. Everything catches up to you in the end, but a bullet can make it seem real fast.

Remember.

Does a wish fountain feel like a whore?

My shitlist - 08
An ode to the worst this year had to offer:

"Nagle Speaks"

Arguably the worst linkster name for "Misomusy". Ever since the inauguration of "Nagle Speaks" the traffic on this blog has plummeted. I give you "Emerging Iranian Voice", maybe the greatest linkster name ever created, and this is how you repay me. Congratulations, you've been shit listed.

Kenny vs. Spenny

This show has ruined my life.

Ralph Nader

I had constantly plugged this populist since early June because I believed Nader was capable of organizing a coup d’état against the current administration. He has proved himself to be a hollow Hugo Chavaz.

Leon

You are a piece of shit. I wish you had been stolen alongside Goliath and sold off piece by piece in an alleyway on the outskirts of Harlem. I ask you again Leon, what is your major malfunction?

58,343,671 Americans

This mitten full of intellectual bankruptcy voted for a ticket with the name "Sarah Palin" on it. No one looking through a prism of reason would vote for a category five moron who believes that the Iraq war is a mission from God and that global warming is occurring independent of human activities. Conveniently, this number also covers the Christian Right and its army of flagsuckers who worship the state.

Breakfast at 66 Maddie

Most hyped breakfast in all of Toronto. The residents will tell you that the sleeping conditions are poor but that's okay because they have "the best breakfast in town!" All talk. Dystopian toast burns, an under supply of dairy products, and the realization that you've just been sleeping on the w--- pillow will have you sliding down the grimy fire escape before you can say "liars."

Redeemer

You breed super Zionists and uncultured robots. Could someone please send Redeemer some Canadian assimilation packages? Also, I know I signed up for Liberal Arts but this is getting immoral. I have now dissected a fetal pig, a sheep's heart, and some bovinian's eye. I am now qualified to withstand long periods of unpleasant odours and use a scalpel like Vince Li. You made me say that Redeemer.

Candy

My glucose levels are always in flux. You give me two minutes of a beautiful high and then drop me to the carpet and make me drool and reach for the bag again. I will break my addiction from you. I'm just not sure I can handle the withdrawal. I need supervision. Perhaps Thursday and Friday.

"Canadian Elections

What was this about? Asides from Layton proving that he could run a campaign on the strength of two words “Kitchen table” and “Corporations”. At least we got to see Dion play hockey and now we have some Green party memorabilia."-- Everything said in this goes for me too, especially the part about Green Party because I now run entirely on solar energy.

Hollywood
Perhaps your civil right causes will be taken seriously if you stop turning California's garbage into films.
Goodnight everybody!

A few excerpts:

Hunting For Beauty

I hop out of my ’94 Chrysler and climb a fire escape to the side entrance of an apartment. I pick the lock and, as the door opens, I am engulfed by the noise of a rhinoceros or some other horned mammal devouring a transmission tower. No, not an alarm—something else. Tentatively, I enter the apartment. The place is a pigsty: books, vinyls, and half-finished sketches scattered across the floor, but most conspicuous of all is the lone piece of furniture—a coffee table—because it is fused together with jujubes. My ears are still ringing when my shirt becomes damp—the climate is tropical here! Appearing from this wilderness, also known as 66 Madison Street in Toronto, are its residents, Ferdowsi and Paul, with drumsticks in hand banging on everything in sight. They both have giant grins and speak garrulously but I cannot hear their voices over the clamour. I look confused. Ferdowsi turns to me and I hear the tail end of his speech: “Get flash, get flash! It’s time to rock out!”

Biology Lab

Introduction

For this experiment, we are trying to answer the question of how soil type affects the growth of seeds. This is of interest to us because of our deep curiosity of soils and someday we may wish to grow a vegetable garden. We chose to compare pea and bean seeds. We chose these seeds because they were the freshest and least likely to be duds. We have little experience with soil and growing plant matter in general. Our hypothesis is that the richer and more nutritious the soil, the better the seeds will grow. If our hypothesis proves correct, then seeds will germinate faster and in greater quantity in Promix; then vermiculite and perlite; and the least amount of success will be met in the insalubrious sand and paper towel. Further, we believe that both seed type will germinate with similar success or failure. The null hypothesis is that the soil-type or condition will have no bearing on whether a seed germinates—or that the seeds will have greater germination with fewer nutrients. Therefore, the seeds will germinate faster and in greater quantity in the paper towels and sands and less so in the vermiculite, perlite and Promix.

La Nouvelle Vague

An auteur, or author, takes complete creative ownership over the filmmaking process, and makes a series of films with a distinct, recognizable style that is original to the auteur. Jean-Luc Godard claims that “there are no works, there are only auteurs” (Bordwell 487). The auteur develops a string of works that could be called a “body of criticism”—works that are not identical but clearly express the author’s voice coherently and continuously from film to film (Staples 4).
David Lynch is an example of a contemporary North American filmmaker who is considered an auteur. Lynch has created a body of works expressing similar themes and executing a similar and uniquely Lynchian technique. Films that are distinctly Lynchian are noted for their unique and chilling use of ambient sound, the use of symbolism in the mise en scene (everything seen on the screen), the use of parallel universes or extended dream sequences, and the sense of a prevailing dark force that governs an industrial and desolate world.
Lynch took inspiration from Truffaut who further developed and pushed the auteur movement in a 1954 Cahiers du Cinema article “Les Politiques de Auteurs,” which has subsequently been hailed as a call to arms against the cinema of quality (Staples 1). Truffaut demanded filmmakers exercise a distinct creative vision with personalized trademarks that carry over from film to film (Staples 1). Andre Bazin, co-founder of Cahiers du Cinema, expanded on auteur theory claiming that traditonional cinema of quality films have an auteur also—but more importantly traditional films have a subject which defines a piece of work (Staples 3). Truffaut’s auteur theory, Bazin argued, removed the subject entirely by defining the work as the auteur. Eliminating the subject might create a cult of personality of the auteur, and this is a necessary risk because the goal of auteur theory is to create a personalized art piece where the “distinction between author and director loses all meaning. The auteur writes with the camera as a writer writes with a pen” (Marie 32-33) Therefore, everything in a scene, the mise en scene, including the voice of the actor, is essentially the voice of the auteur. Moreover, the auteur’s voice should speak to the audience. Films should connect the audience with the auteur, as if the two were experiencing an intimate conversation (Monaco 8). This is requiring more from the viewer, asking them to participate in the filmmaking process. Auteur theory worked against the norm of the cinema of quality, where the studio would override the authority of the director—and the filmmaking process was not truly unique to the filmmaker. Truffaut did not “believe in the peaceful co-existence of the Tradition [cinema] of Quality and a cinema of auteurs ” (Staples 2). Eventually, the critics had the opportunity to put auteur theory to the test and compete with the cinema of quality.